


Crossing The Rubicon

by melliyna



Category: Kate and Cecelia - Caroline Stevermer & Patricia Wrede, Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, M/M, Multiple Crossovers, Snapshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 04:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melliyna/pseuds/melliyna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are London, in their differing ways. And London belongs to them, as they do to each other. A study of an OT3, through John Watson's eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossing The Rubicon

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a song by _The Sound_. A million thank you's to my most excellent beta Queenfanfiction who is largely responsible for pulling this story in to shape. Written for Marionquixote in the Holmestice exchange.

_"Sir, if you wish to have a just notion of the magnitude of this city, you must not be satisfied with seeing its great streets and squares, but must survey the innumerable little lanes and courts. It is not in the showy evolutions of buildings, but in the multiplicity of human habitations which are crowded together, that the wonderful immensity of London consists."._

 

**(Samuel Johnson)**

John Watson would call himself a practical man. But there's always been something _other_. It's not the army (though he saw enough of magicians there - it's been something of a speciality since Wellington's day) and it's not even St Bart's (Molly swears the dead still speak if you know the right words to speak and when to speak them) - it's London. Not London Below, he's not one for that, for the smoke and shadow, blood and stars. It's London Above because God knows Dr. John Watson is not a bloody magician (he knows a smattering of the theory, a little healing charm here and there, no more than any army doctor picks up) but he can feel the _other_ in London. It's old magic and maybe something else as well, but above all London knows those who call it home.

 

John Watson loves London and Sherlock and Greg, and somehow the three of them have become one for him. John has found himself writing the stories of them all. He laughs at himself, but he can't stop taking it at least a little bit seriously. "You know, London always needs its protectors Dr Watson. It always has, upon my word" The Marquis had said it to him, with no laughter in his face and John had wondered, afterwards, what it meant when he feels the truth of it in his bones. 

 

Sherlock Holmes is hansom cabs, pea soup fog. Whitechapel, Cheapside, fine clubs, capes. Taxis, texting, chinese food, St Bart's and swirling coats to look cool. Sherlock has always been London but it is these things that John thinks he will always hold as the anchor points for Sherlock and London. Sherlock who has no magic but his own self, his own brilliant mind and heart that is more than enough. Though John will admit Sherlock is bloody well gorgeous, thank you very much, it's not ever that. It's the man, the man himself, John thinks. That he can be his own magic.

  
_"This is my tribe. By blood and love and purpose. And I will defend what is mine."_   


  
**Bibliothekara**   


Gregory Lestrade is both France and London (not like Donovan, who is London to the bone, or Molly, who is the same). But what he has always been is inherently, absolutely kind. John thinks sometimes that Greg has been given the kindness of the city to protect - the part of London that forever cares for all who make their way there, who come in to peril or ruin. Like Molly, he speaks for kindness. But Gregory Lestrade is as much the son of France - you can hear it in his accent, sometimes (more so when he lapses into French when singing to his daughter) and in the man's culinary skills, in his undeniable grace.

 

But he has made London his own, and London knows its guardian. And John is glad to watch this watchman, this officer esteemed by London Above and Below both. And John has begun to realise that he loves him too, just as he loves Sherlock. Which is terrible but wonderful and well done, Dr.Watson, he smiles to himself, as he watches both of his friends, his loves, and does not say anything for fear of ruining what they already have, which is beautiful as it is.

 

They have always worked together, right from the very first moment, and it has been odd to see them solve cases and have an understanding in which no one truly needs to say anything. Greg and Sherlock know when John wants help and when he doesn't, when to push and when to not push - what his take away order is, when to direct him to the shop with less troublesome chip and pin machines and when to leave him be to yell at the machine. He and Greg know when Sherlock needs silence and when he needs a case to stop the itching fingers. They know where the emergency cigarettes are stashed, where to find Sherlock's sheet music at four am and when to push him towards food and when to leave well alone. John and Sherlock know when Greg needs to be given a coffee and pushed out the door, when he needs to be cared for as he cares for others, when he needs time to visit his wife's grave to talk to her, when he really needs to see his daughter and what he likes for breakfast (pain au chocolate) and how Greg Lestrade is completely oblivious to his own good looks.

 

They know each other well and John has always thought why ruin that which works. Until that day.

 

There was a rogue magician, one of the Sorcerers' Wing of the National Front ('dull,' Sherlock would have said - one of those straightforward but ugly cases of human unpleasantness),and Greg gets in the way of a spell and nearly gets the life drained out of him. John Watson has never seen Sally Donovan move that fast and hopes to never see it again. He's never seen her and Sherlock agree on anything, and for all it's amazing he never wants to see it again either. Never wants to see both of them, looking sick as they mutter spells and chants and prayers over a too-pale Lestrade. John itches to help but he can't, not here. He's never learned those kinds of spells, though he didn't know Sherlock knew them either. And somehow, somehow in that moment all three of them know.

 

Afterwards, afterwards, it's slow. If Greg ends up cuddled in bed between them, if he tilts his head up to kiss John, if Sherlock likes both of them to lie against him while he works then so be it. They don't need to rush this, not now. They stand together and stand protected, as does London - and John? John thinks both are reconciled.

  
_Whose limbs were made in England, show us here the mettle of your pasture._  


  
_I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,_  


  
_Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:_  


  
_Follow your spirit; and upon this charge_  


  
_Cry "God for Harry! England and Saint George"._  


  
**(Henry V - Henry urges his men into the attack at the Siege of Harfleur)**  



End file.
